


The Continuation

by magicknickers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicknickers/pseuds/magicknickers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skin and bones and flesh and blood struggling, struggling to continue, but everybody dies and still the flesh continues, rotting and collapsing like it never meant anything at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Continuation

**Author's Note:**

> Some warnings to keep in mind: angst, mentions of murder, slight necro if you squint a whole lot, disturbing imagery, sociopathic tendencies. No fluffy Tom here.

Thin and fair and dark, _dark_ -eyed and lovely like the sound of a dying man’s last breathe is lovely. It is still and frail and powerful, hungry with the thought of life’s end so close at hand, at the idea of the endless anything beyond what is now. She stands with her back to him, not because she fears him, though everybody fears him now, but because, because--

He does not know. And he stands facing her pale, delicate back, every bone in her spine standing out in great relief underneath her skin, as if trying to break through and escape the shell that she is. Skin and bones and flesh and blood struggling, struggling to continue, but everybody dies and still the flesh continues, rotting and collapsing like it never meant anything at all. And maybe it did not. Did it? Did the flesh care _(think, feel, matter)_ or was there anything really there to begin with?

He does not know. Still, he does not know. He stands, still he stands, facing her, unable to see those dark, haunting eyes with the pupils so large and black, blacker than black. And he does not see her face, but he knows what it is, what it looks _(tastes, feels, sounds, smells)_ like.

She stands very still, the brush of darkness that is her hair falling around her like a shadow. Does she feel it, that dark fall of hair on her flesh, brushing ever-softly against her thin, fair skin? Does she feel his eyes, pale and luminous and imploring, does she feel them on her back, with the vertebrae straining against her paper-thin skin?

He does not know. Still, he wonders if it hurts. The darkness and the struggling and his _(avada kedavra)_ eyes still on her, does it hurt?

He does not know, and he does not ask, because she is turned away, dark eyes unfocused, seeing something _other_.

She does not face him because he is not really there, is he? The flesh does not truly feel, and neither does she, because she is just flesh, empty skin and bones and flesh and blood, struggling, struggling.

If the flesh does not feel, than why does _he_ feel, standing very quietly behind her, his eyes on her pale, lovely back, the yearning inside his aching flesh demanding and heady and dark, dark?

He does not know.

His flesh does not continue, still and unyielding because of that plain, ugly girl in the Chamber, still and pale and aching like the sound of a dying man’s last breath is aching. It is still and frail and powerful, and so is he.

He _feels_ , aching and painful and throbbing like some being has crawled up inside him and is trying to break through his skin like her bones try, always trying.

Still, she stands, and she reminds him of that plain, ugly girl in the Chamber because she is lovely like the sound of a dying man’s last breath is lovely, and he heard that girl’s last, lovely breath very clearly as it struggled to become tangible in the cold, still air. The slide of the metallic beast moving against his aching flesh as he heard that soft leaving of life in the Chamber comes too, the memory sharp and terrible and perfect. It aches like she does, and he does not know why he feels, but he does, standing as he is very quietly behind her.

She turns to him, dark eyes blacker than he is, and he smiles very softly.

She is lovely and so is he, lovely like the bloom of a fresh bruise underneath fair skin, like the sound of a dying man’s last breath is lovely.

He does not know why, but she does not feel and he does, aching and sharp and lovely like she is lovely.


End file.
